In Absentia
by Xzeihoranth
Summary: Elizabeth's plan for revenge goes beautifully astray, and in the end, she has nothing to complain about. Yes, this is ANOTHER Burial at Sea rewrite, giving Rapture and Elizabeth a proper send-off. (Until 2K does something else with them of course.)
1. The Job

It's a dark and stormy night, on the surface anyway. In Rapture, it's much like any other night, despite the fact it's Christmas Eve. Though the city has no official religion, its founder Andrew Ryan states "I have said in the past that I believe in no God. That remains true. And yet I also believe that the people of this city, indeed the people of _all_ cities, are at their finest with as little interference on the part of government as possible. All of Rapture's residents are free to worship whomever and however they see fit, in the privacy of their own homes." A few last-minute shoppers bustle back and forth, but most people are out late celebrating. There's a sense of electricity in the air, though that might just be the Plasmid that's got everyone talking, Electro Bolt.

A young woman makes her elegant way past The Satyr Lounge. In another life, she might have paid attention to the gossip about philosophy or compromise or Fontaine or what men _really _want. Now though, she has a job to do, and a job to offer. A job he won't be able to resist. She heads up a curving flight of stairs to a virtually unmarked door tucked away at the top. She fumbles in her pocket for a purloined package of cigarettes. She pulls one out and places it between her fingers. That, at least, comes easily. _I'm as ready as I'll ever be_, she thinks to herself and knocks upon the door.

"We're not open" is the response, quicker and more coherent than she's been led to expect. She knocks again. "Go away." His voice is painfully familiar with its sudden terseness. She tries the handle. Locked. As anticipated. She can soon take care of that.

A moment later, it opens. She hears the click of a safety being thumbed off in the darkness in front of her. "What's the matter, you deaf or somethin'?" the man asks. "I said we're not open." Bullets can't hurt her. Bullets have never been able to hurt her.

"I have a job, Mister..." She pretends to read the name upon the door. "DeWitt. A job I think you're preeminently qualified for."

"This ain't the kind of night for a job." DeWitt says. "Come back in the mornin'. Or better yet don't come back at all." She can dimly make out his shape. He's leaning back in his chair, a Mauser C96 pointed casually in her direction.

"It seems we've gotten off on the wrong foot." She strolls on over to the window. He swivels to watch her. She notices that the blinds have been drawn for a while. There's a thin layer of dust visible on the slats at eye level. "What do you say we start over with a light?" She holds her cigarette out to him.

He snorts. "Awfully eager to make my acquaintance, miss...?" She's silent until he sighs and sets the pistol down on the desk and leans forward. With a snap, his first two fingers are alight, which doesn't bother him in the slightest. He casually touches them to the tip of her cigarette, and her eyes seem to gleam as the fire takes hold.

"Elizabeth." she says, taking a drag upon the cigarette. It's her turn to sigh now, as she breathes the smoke in his direction. "You can call me Elizabeth."

"Is that it?" he asks. She's silent again. "All right. What kind of job brings a girl like you round so late at night?"

She draws something else from her pocket. A picture. "You know this girl?"

DeWitt takes it. "Knew her. Past tense. She's dead."

"What if I told you she wasn't?"

He hands it back to her. "I'd say you're a damn liar." he replies coolly.

She motions for him to keep it. "Maybe. Not this time though." She takes another drag. "How did you know her?"

"That's my affair. How'd _you_ know her?"

"That's MY affair." she shoots back.

DeWitt sighs. "Well that's not gettin' us anywhere. Give it to me straight, 'Elizabeth'. What do you want?"

"I want the girl. I'm prepared to pay for your help in finding her. Double your usual rate. Time is money, as they say."

"What's the catch?"

She gestures towards the ceiling. _"There may be trouble ahead..."_ Sinatra sings. _"But while there's music and moonlight and love and romance..." _She saunters toward the door._ "Let's face the music and dance."_ And with that, his mind's made up.

* * *

><p>She waits for him outside. She leans against the railing, her back to the large port-glass window. Even the residents haven't gotten used to the view, but to her it's just another cage.<p>

DeWitt comes out less than a minute later, wearing a tan trenchcoat and fedora. It's repellent how hard he's trying to fit in, but she keeps her face carefully neutral. "Where shall we start?" she asks.

"You don't got any leads?" he asks, his hands in his pockets. She can tell how much he's craving a cigarette. Why doesn't he just _ask_ for one?

"If I had any leads, do you think I would have bothered to hire you?" She continues without waiting for a reply. "You're the detective. I expect you to do some detecting."

He grimaces. "Playing dumb don't suit you." he says. Instantly she's on her guard. Like her, however, he moves on quickly. "'fore we get started, how 'bout somethin' to drink? There's a little place down the street I used to go to-"

"Used to?"

"Yeah. Used to. Wouldn't mind one last visit."

"I don't drink."

"You're kidding."

"No Mr DeWitt. No I am not."

"Well, suit yourself. I'm still going." He heads off down the staircase. She follows at a respectable distance.

A whale swims past the window. DeWitt and Elizabeth can't help but overhear a snatch of conversation as they pass by two women in matching red dresses who are looking out at the creature. "Do you suppose they can see us?" one asks.

"Probably."

"What must they think?"

"Very little, I imagine. Whales are _dread_fully dull. They swim around and eat plankton! What kind of a life is that?"

"Doesn't seem to be doing that one any harm. If anything he looks like he's healthier than you."

"Oh, what nonsense. I'd rather eat meat and die young than live to be a hundred and fifty living off PLANTS!"

The little place turns out to be a division of Sinclair Spirits. There are only two other people there, not including the bartender, who looks up as Elizabeth and her escort pass through the curtain. "Glass of Arcadia Merlot." DeWitt tells him. The bartender nods and moves away to the shelf full of different bottles of wine. DeWitt sits down at the bar. Elizabeth sits down next to him. "How come you don't drink?" DeWitt asks idly.

"My father was an alcoholic. Among other things." Elizabeth puts the dying cigarette back in her mouth while she searches for another one. "I consider myself lucky I never acquired the habit."

DeWitt nods. He doesn't tell her of his own history with the stuff, though he's unaware she already knows. "But you smoke." he says after a while. "Smokin's worse than drinkin'."

"If we're going to compare vices, you might at least fill me in on some of yours. Doesn't seem fair otherwise." She gestures for an ashtray, which is soon supplied, and grinds her first cigarette into it for a moment before lighting a second.

"Rapture's not about bein' fair. It's about stayin' on top." The bartender returns with the drink. "Cheers." DeWitt puts some money on the countertop.

The man places it somewhere below. He seems to be in a good mood, as he hangs around to chat. "Ryan's a big fish in an awful small pond, you ask me!" he says, apropos of nothing.

"Anything you say, pal." DeWitt takes a sip of the Merlot.

"If I was running things, I'd say, 'Why just one city? Why not two? Hey, why not three?'" This prompts a spirited debate between the bartender and Elizabeth. Elizabeth is allegedly of the opinion that Ryan is best suited by making sure one city is in order and capable of self-sufficiency before considering others, while the bartender declares his idea to be the true way of demonstrating support for the Great Chain, making the unspoken assumption that the people of each city would be capable of supporting themselves and would not need a Central Council to make all their decisions for them. DeWitt maintains silent neutrality throughout the debate, nursing his glass and grunting whenever one of them tries to gain his support. Eventually the bartender moves off, frustrated by Elizabeth's calm but relentless insistence.

DeWitt tosses back the last of his wine in one gulp. He gestures to Elizabeth. As he turns to go, his eyes pass over one of the posters of missing children that are scattered around the establishment. The wine and the many puzzles his partner poses dull his senses long enough so he doesn't begin to put the pieces together until they're about to pass by the Little Wonders Educational Facility. He spies a group of girls in two single file lines outside and slows to a stop. They turn to look at him, almost in unison. There's something unnatural about the way they stand at attention, made all the worse by their garish face paint. "Mister DeWitt." Elizabeth says from his side. She conceals her own emotions admirably. "It doesn't do to stare at the Little Sisters." she tells him. He frowns and starts walking, edging past their black-clad teacher, who pays him no mind.

Once they're out of earshot, he mutters, "Those girls can't be more 'n' 8 years old. Kids that age should be runnin' around makin' life miserable f'r their parents. Not whatever the hell that was."

"Without Andrew Ryan, those girls would be out on the street. At least in there they get fed." Elizabeth replies, keeping her true feelings on the matter well hidden once again.

"Get fed what?" DeWitt asks darkly. "The things I've heard go on in there..." But he cuts himself off as they move past another small crowd of people. As if to add insult to injury, the intercom chimes in with a public service announcement: _Rumor is the tool of the Parasite. Fontaine is dead; Rapture lives. _"You see all those posters in the bar?" DeWitt asks. "Makes me wonder just how many 'orphans' Ryan's boys are actually pickin' up'."

"If you want to ask him yourself, I've heard he might be at a party up on High Street a little later." Elizabeth says.

"Is that so? Maybe he wouldn't mind answerin' a couple questions... Elevator's a ways ahead. Let's see if we c'n figure out where this party's going t' be."


	2. The Search Begins

DeWitt looks back. Elizabeth has stopped and is staring at the worker outside like she's seeing a ghost. Though given the 'quirks' of ADAM, perhaps she is. "Everything okay?" DeWitt starts to ask. She blinks. "Hey! Elizabeth!" he calls. Her head turns in his direction. For a moment, he thinks she's about to smile. Then the moment passes, and he notices a thin line of blood running down her face from her nose. "Your nose is bleedin'." he tells her.

"What?" She touches her fingers to a nostril. It's only then that he notices she's missing a pinkie. "It's nothing." she says before he has a chance to comment on it. "Let's move on."

"Fine with me." He waits for her to catch up before he asks her, "You want to wash it off?"

"I imagine people would stare if I walked about with blood on my face." she admits.

"They'd probably stare either way. There's a public restroom up the stairs in the Andalusian Arms. You'll have to go in by yourself; management's not too keen on me there anymore."

"I can handle myself Mr DeWitt." she says. Nevertheless, he escorts her through the front door. The bellhop holds up a warning hand.

"Got some nerve showing your face round here pal." he says. Elizabeth walks past him unhindered.

"Just makin' sure the lady gets where she wants t' go." DeWitt responds evenly. He leans back against the reception desk, ignoring the bellhop's suspicious glare. A few minutes later, Elizabeth returns. The blood on her hand and face is gone, as is her second cigarette. She walks past him without even looking in his direction. He stands up and follows her.

She pushes the button to call the elevator, and seems relieved when the door opens almost immediately. They step inside and she folds her arms, leaving it to him to press the button to take them to the High Street. DeWitt attempts to make small talk as the elevator starts its ascent. "So, what part of town you from?" he asks.

"Mercury Suites." Elizabeth lies.

DeWitt whistles. "That explains why I haven't seen you 'round before." A sharp stabbing pain suddenly cuts through his head. His vision goes gray and fuzzy. He sees hands, _his_ hands, clutching a bowl of water, and then...

"Mr DeWitt." The strange woman's voice comes to him from a long way away. "Is something the matter?"

He looks up at her. A long way up. He must've fallen to his hands and knees this time. "I'm fine." he tells her. "I get these...flashes sometimes... Think I oughta slow down on the splicin'." Her face is unreadable, but she allows him to get back on his feet without further comment. By the time the doors open, it's almost as if nothing had happened.

A waiter is there to greet them. "Refreshment sir?" he asks.

DeWitt shakes his head. "Better not."

The waiter looks to Elizabeth. "Madam?"

"Thank you, no." Elizabeth says. The waiter disappears in a cloud of red. He reappears a few steps away, creating cool mist inside a customer's glass, then disappears again, only to show up behind the bar to light someone's cigarette with his fingers the same way DeWitt had done.

"It ain't real teleportation." DeWitt explains as he and Elizabeth make their way through the lower level of the establishment. "Just looks like it. They're invisible, is all."

"How do you know?"

"One of 'em tried to jump me a couple of months ago. Junkie. Wasn't as sneaky as he thought he was; forgot to take his boots off. I waited til he used it, then I punched him in the face."

"Very observant. I can see how you found your calling as a detective."

As DeWitt leaves Le Temps Perdu, he's struck with the sudden realization of just how monumental a task he's undertaken. Finding one little girl in the whole of Rapture looks increasingly like sheer and utter folly. He takes the photo from his pocket and stares at it, forcing himself to remember everything he can about her. "First things first." he says, as much for his own benefit as for Elizabeth's. "If livin' in Rapture's taught me anything, it's that if you want answers, you go straight to the top. Let's find out about that party Andrew Ryan's going t' be at."

"One of the shopkeepers might know something." Elizabeth suggests.

"Good thinking. Let's start with Mister Schmidt. We have a...longstanding arrangement."

Herr Schmidt, however, doesn't know anything about Ryan's supposed party. Neither does the proprietor of Le Marquis D'Epoque, one Winston Hoffner, who does however comment on not having had the 'pleasure' of DeWitt's company for a very long time. Elizabeth frowns at this, and, when DeWitt asks her why, conceals the real reason by feigning snobbery at the name. "The literal translation just serves to confuse people who might actually speak French. A better name would be something along the lines of 'L'homme Moderne'."

"Huh. Never imagined you'd be interested in France."

"I must admit I've never been. Not _really_. Maybe one day..." She looks back at him. "Where should we go next?"

DeWitt rubs his chin thoughtfully. "The Watched Clock's usually a good place to pick up on the gossip. If that doesn't work, we could try a couple of the high-brow places: Artist's Struggle or Rapture Records..."

"What about that Cohen character?" Elizabeth asks. There's a sign for his local club off to the left, along with a group of interpretative dancers on illuminated pedestals out in front. _That nutjob's never been much for subtlety,_ DeWitt thinks.

Aloud, he says, "Best if we keep someone like you as far away from him as possible. The last thing we'd need is for him to take a shine to you."

"Stranger things have happened. I guess The Watched Clock it is." They take a detour off of High Street itself and turn into a side passage that leads to a surprisingly spacious diner. The interior is beautifully lit and decorated. Even at this late hour, there are a handful of other patrons scattered about, none of whom pay much attention to the newcomers. The owner looks up from wiping down the counter.

"Evening folks. What can I get ya?"

DeWitt opens his mouth to say something, but Elizabeth interrupts. "A plate of bread and cheese will be fine." she says.

"Sure." the man says. "And for you?" he asks DeWitt.

"Box of crackers." DeWitt replies, the shrug not evident as much in his body as in his voice.

"Coming right up." The man heads back into the kitchen while DeWitt and Elizabeth take a seat in one of the empty booths. A pleasant little instrumental jazz number from the radio behind them drifts throughout the room, while the smell of meat being cooked on the stove wafts in from the kitchen. Elizabeth looks at anything and everything except the man sitting across from her. She notes the lesbian couple who seem to know and love the music being played, and her mind takes her back to Columbia and Daisy Fitzroy, and the secret one of the doors had imparted to her about the erstwhile leader of the Vox Populi. Daisy died during the six months of hell Elizabeth had been made to endure. The doctors said she'd personally led an assault on Comstock House, but had only managed to launch a few salvos from the zeppelin she'd commandeered before Songbird ripped it to shreds.

Elizabeth doesn't feel like eating any more.

When the waiter returns with their food, DeWitt and Elizabeth both thank him, but they're promptly distracted upon hearing the words 'Andrew Ryan' somewhere in the diner. Casually, they look out of the corners of their eyes until they locate the speaker: a middle-aged brown-haired man wearing glasses. They probably wouldn't be able to pick him out of a crowd; Rapture's full of men like him; but what he's saying proves more interesting than his appearance. He's standing next to a booth with two women in it. From the way they're holding themselves, he seems to be a friend. "I can't be_lieve_ he's hosting that party at Sander Cohen's. Man gives me the shivers." he's saying.

"He's harmless!" one of the women responds. "An eccentric! Rapture's full of guys like him!"

"Harmless as long as you don't diss his music. Or his 'humanitarian work'. Or his painting. Or his sculptures-"

"Give it a rest Phil! I don't believe a single thing that comes out of those parties. They're simply jealous he didn't offer to paint THEM instead!"

DeWitt sighs as he pries open his box of crackers. "Figures he'd set up at Cohen's. Couldn't have been somewhere down on Market Street or even in Fort Frolic, oh no; he gotta show the upper-crust there's nothin' t' be afraid of."

"I don't suppose we could just walk over and knock on the door." Elizabeth muses. "There's bound to be some kind of dress code..."

"I doubt the detective look's gonna go over well in a place like that." DeWitt says. "Well, cross that bridge when we get to it." He leaves some money for the bill on the table, plus a little extra as a tip. Elizabeth slips the last of her cheese into what's left of the bread to make an impromptu sandwich and hurries to catch up.


	3. Expected Company

DeWitt and Elizabeth loiter outside Le Temps Perdu while they finish their meal. Elizabeth finishes hers first, wiping her mouth clean of crumbs with a handkerchief DeWitt offers her. "Do you have a plan?" she asks.

"Yeah. Walk up to the door, show 'em my license and ask if they'll let me in." DeWitt replies between bites of crackers. Elizabeth does not seem amused. "What?" he says. "It's worked for me so far."

"Everybody's luck runs out eventually, Mr DeWitt." she says coolly. "Let's hope yours holds out a little longer."

Suddenly DeWitt's not very hungry either. He throws away the rest of the crackers, remembering all too well what happened the last time he'd felt lucky. Without another word, he heads off to The Garden of the Muses, Elizabeth hot on his heels. He knocks four times on the surprisingly inelegant steel door in front. The grate slides open. "What do you want?" the doorman barks.

"Name's DeWitt." DeWitt holds up his license for the doorman's inspection. "Booker DeWitt. I'm a private investigator; heard Andrew Ryan's gonna be in the neighborhood. We just have a couple questions for him."

"Questions?" the doorman asks. Unseen eyes glide over to Elizabeth. His laughter stops as soon as it had started. "Ohh. You must be the muses Mr Cohen spoke about. One moment..." The grate slams shut.

"'Muses'?" Elizabeth says in shock.

DeWitt turns to look at her. "Son of a bitch knew we were comin'. But how?"

"I'm not sure I like that we're expected by someone of Sander Cohen's 'standing'." Elizabeth says. Though her voice and posture are unchanged, there's an element of worry in her face for the first time all evening.

The grate clangs open again. "Mr Cohen will be delighted to see you." the doorman says smoothly.

"What about Mr Ryan?" Elizabeth interjects.

"You'll get what's coming to you." the doorman laughs. Elizabeth toys with the stub of her missing finger as the door opens. Immediately, they're blinded by the light that rushes out to meet them. Slowly, their eyes become accustomed to the brightness, and they step over the threshold into a room of painful, almost antiseptic, white. Elizabeth's skirt and hair make her stand out even more than she normally would. Silently, DeWitt follows her. They move across the room until they come to a halt before a man in a white suit and bunny mask. He in turn steps down from a sculpture of a white hand rising out of the floor, upon which he had been standing like it had grabbed him and refused to let him go, and taps four rhythmic taps upon another door. The door slides up to reveal a grey stone floor and grey stone walls that seem to disappear only a few paces in. The man gestures silently, and Elizabeth steps inside. DeWitt does as well, but almost instantly loses sight of her in the darkness. He feels his way forward, inch by inch, until a large neon light in the shape of a bunny mask (_what is it with this freak and bunny masks?_ DeWitt wonders to himself) reveals the outline of her figure. Her arms are crossed, as if he's kept her waiting. As he comes closer, he realizes that it isn't the light that's in the shape of a mask, it's the _tunnel_. A third door is opening in the distance, and DeWitt can already feel his patience with Cohen's 'quirks' ebbing away.

They step out onto a landing. The shadow of a man and a woman can be seen on the wall directly in front of them, wearing masks in the shape of the crescent moon and radiant sun and engaging in a waltz somewhere close by. DeWitt edges around a pair of albino rabbits on the ground and sees a staircase off to his right. He motions for Elizabeth to follow.

As they make their way through the crowd and down the stairs, Cohen's voice drifts up from below, exhorting his dancers to the bizarre accompaniment of an accordion. "That's right, that's right... Be the conduit! Open yourselves to the music! To the spirit of the eternal!"

When Elizabeth and her escort reach the bottom of the staircase, something goes wrong. The accordion stops abruptly, and Cohen becomes enraged. "No! No!" he bellows. "If I've told you once I've told you a thousand times-"

The male dancer interrupts. "You haven't told us anything!" he says.

"That's right!" his partner agrees.

But Cohen is already shaking his head. "I don't want to hear any more about it! You're fired!" He looks up. "Hector!"

"For god's sake Cohen-" Their protests are cut off by a hundred watt voltage surging through the cables attached to them. They arch their backs in agony while Elizabeth gasps in barely-concealed horror. DeWitt looks over, already reaching for his Mauser, but she doesn't seem to be in immediate danger. Her eyes are wide and terrified, unable to look away. After what seems like an eternity, the dancers droop lifelessly in their harnesses as the electric current subsides.

The unconscious couple are hoisted away out of sight (unconscious, or worse), but Cohen is already looking away. "Who's that?" he asks, peering around the different layers of the room at the masked onlookers. "Is it someone new?"

A woman in a pitch-black velvet dress speaks up. "It was her!" she says, somehow indicating Elizabeth without raising so much as a finger. Others chime in in agreement, going with the flow. DeWitt attempts to ward them away by putting a hand between Elizabeth and the crowd. _There's too many of 'em,_ he thinks to himself. He reaches for his pistol again. His finger has just curled in around the trigger when Sander Cohen finally says something.

"Ahh. The REAL stars have arrived." he purrs. "Come closer. I won't bite..."

Against his better judgement, DeWitt does so. The noise of the crowd fades away. He leaves Elizabeth a few steps behind; though he may not trust her entirely, something in the way she's conducted herself up until this point tells him she can _certainly_ take care of herself. She watches his conversation with Sander Cohen, though her poise is still clearly shaken. "We're lookin' for Mr Ryan...?" DeWitt says.

Cohen chuckles. "What made you think he'd be here?" he replies.

"Word on the street is he'd be attending one of your usual shindigs here tonight. For your sake, I hope it wasn't this one." DeWitt makes sure to stand well clear of the cables on the ground.

"There's nothing illegal going on here, detective." Cohen's voice is as wheedling as it is patently fake. "I was in here, painting a scene out of _memory_, when the two of you showed up and started asking questions." His unctuous tone begins to fade. "It's our word against yours. Do you think Andrew Ryan would believe a drunkard over an artist?"

Elizabeth comes forward to stand at DeWitt's side. "Your 'proclivities' are well-known." she says calmly. "All it would take is the right word in the right ear for your adoring public to turn against you."

A smile stretches across Sander Cohen's face. "I was wondering when you'd show up." he murmurs. "I saw your face in a dream. There may not have been as much _blood_ on it then, but dreams are unpredictable little rascals..." Elizabeth reaches up, but Cohen is there first. He wipes away the blood from under her nose with the backs of his fingers. DeWitt's spine crawls. Cohen stands up straight. "What business brought you to see me?" he asks suddenly.

"We didn't come here to see you." DeWitt says gruffly. "We came here for Ryan."

But Elizabeth is already holding out the photo. "She did."

"How did you-" He's _sure_ it had been in his pocket a couple minutes ago...

"I'm a woman of many talents." she replies. "I also found this." She shows him a porcelain doll head.

"Give that back." DeWitt growls.

"May I?" Cohen reaches for it, but Elizabeth pulls it away. She allows him to examine it, while maintaining her grip. "Yes...yes, I seem to remember... She was important to you, was she not?" DeWitt doesn't answer him. "And you thought Andrew Ryan would know where she is. Did you think he kidnapped her himself?" He chuckles.

"We never said she was kidnapped." Elizabeth says, putting her hands on her hips.

"But it's what you had envisioned." Cohen returns without missing a beat. "Imagination can be a dangerous thing if you're not prepared for it." He gestures for Elizabeth to take the photo and the doll's head away. "Her whereabouts may become known to me. I can make...inquiries..."

"And what would you expect from us in return?" Elizabeth asks. She passes both of her discoveries back to DeWitt.

"Oh, aren't you the clever one." Cohen murmurs again. "My request is simple: a dance. Nothing more, nothing less."


	4. Dance Into The Dark

"A dance?" DeWitt asks in disbelief. "Look, whatever you an' your entourage get up to down here's between you an' god, for now anyways. But she ain't that kinda girl."

Sander Cohen smiles disarmingly, but it's Elizabeth who speaks. "Mr DeWitt." Everyone who isn't already looking at her turns to look at her. She holds out her hand. "Dance with me." It's not a request, it's a _command_, and he does as he is told.

"Why are you doing this?" DeWitt mutters under Cohen's exultations.

"I wish to see you reconciled." Elizabeth says. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"You got a look in your eye says you don't put much faith in reconciliation."

("Let your conscious state of mind drift away. Rid yourself of the artifice of everyday existence, and show us who you _really are_.")

Her eyes soften, like she's seeing something or someone that isn't there. "Maybe...maybe I'm looking for a reason to believe." she murmurs.

He's silent, waiting for an explanation that may never come. The whole room is silent, even Cohen, who's taken by the muse more intensely than he can remember being taken in a long long time, and his memory goes back ages, back to New York and Elgar Vankin and Mimi Tabor and wasn't that who he just had electrocuted? Fancy _them_ of all people letting him down. Not like these two; he's been DREAMING of these two. Mama always said he had a knack for seeing things; his whole life has been dedicated to proving her right, and now here these two are, these...two...

"You're free to go if you wish." Cohen says abruptly. "But do drop in again any time."

DeWitt lets go of Elizabeth's hands. Pleasant though the experience has been, he's eager to step off the poisonous metal coils. "Go where?" he asks. Has Cohen 'forgotten' their arrangement so soon?

Cohen doesn't look up from his canvas. "Oh yes, of course. Forgive my forgetfulness!" he chuckles. "These men will take you where you need to go."

Three large men that would have resembled bouncers if not for their skimpy attire appear out of nowhere and quickly bundle burlap sacks over DeWitt and Elizabeth's heads. "The hell are you doin'?" DeWitt asks sharply, struggling to get free. A powerful hand closes around one of his wrists, and he decides to stop struggling. Elizabeth accepts her situation with more outward poise. Her anger is more resigned than DeWitt's, though hardly less palpable. The brutes set off through the club, steering their charges deftly, though forcefully, between the curious onlookers.

"Where are you taking us?" Elizabeth asks, though of course she already knows.

"It's a secret innit?" one of the man says. "'at's why y've got the bags over yer heads."

"I thought it was to pretty up the view." one of the other men says. He and the first man share a laugh over that until the third man speaks up.

"Shut up." he growls. "There'll be time for talk once we get these two on their way."

"Oooh, I don't envy you mate." the first man says, nudging Booker with an elbow. "I seen all kinds o' whackjobs down here, but those 'uns take the cake!"

"It wos s'posed t' be a surprise, dipshit!" the second man groans. It seems as though an argument is about to break out until the third man says 'shut up' again in a tone of voice that brooks no arguing. The hands around DeWitt and Elizabeth's wrists loosen as their owners are taken some distance away and given a stern talking-to by the third man. The duo entertain separate though similarly timed notions of taking the bags off and running, but they have different reasons for not going through with it.

"Elizabeth." DeWitt says quietly, not sure where she is. "You all right?"

Her voice comes to him somewhere from his right. "Fine, though I'm...surprised that you care." Nothing is going according to plan...

"I just want t' get paid, that's all." he lies. He could take or leave the money at this point; the opportunity for closure is _far_ more appealing.

"Right." Their escort returns, grunting and mumbling angrily, and gives them a shove to get them moving. The ambience of Cohen's club has faded away above and behind them. Now all there is to hear is the sound of Rapture's lower levels: the machinery that helps keep the people above in the lap of luxury. Geothermal generators down in Hephaestus supply power to the whole of the city straight from the core of the planet. DeWitt doesn't know how it all works exactly; he's just thankful that it does, when he remembers to be (usually right after it stops). Power outages, though minimal, are not unheard of; even in a 'city of the future', as some of its more dramatic inhabitants have taken to calling it, the squeaky wheel gets the grease.

A door opens. "'ere y'are." one of the men says, and DeWitt registers the familiar squeaking of the handle of a bathysphere being turned.

"What's going on?" he asks. "I thought we had a deal!" He starts to struggle again.

"Cut it out." Someone whacks him on the back of the head, none too gently. He stumbles to his knees. Even through the burlap sack, he can see stars.

* * *

><p>"<em>The field's rather unstable."<em>

"_It's fine, hurry!"_

"_'Fine?' Are you mad?!"_

"_No! You will not get caught between, come!"_

"_It is comfortable enough as it is!"_

"_It's going to be more uncomfortable if you don't come now!"_

"_If I don't get caught, it's going to be a very long time before we see each other."_

"_You will not get caught, I promise!"_

"_You can't promise me that!"_

"_We're going to lose our window!"_

"_I'll wait, thank you!"_

"_GIVE ME BACK MY DAUGHTER!"_

"Mr DeWitt! Mr DeWitt!"

He opens his eyes. It takes a great deal of effort. A pale and curious face swims into focus. "Ugh..." he groans. "How long was I out?"

"Long enough." Elizabeth gestures out the window. "Take a look."

He gets to his feet. They're headed out of the city. But where? An ad for the ever-present Hotel Monseñor goes past as he struggles to clear his head. Another ad, this one for the Rapture Zoo. He's always meant to go, but never found the time... Elizabeth speaks up again. "You kept saying her name; Sally..."

"I know." DeWitt says wearily. "I-" But a nearby radio suddenly whines into life. The voice that comes out is as familiar to Mr DeWitt as just about anything else.

"When the central computer alerted me to a transit request from a disused transport bay, I was prepared to tell security to blow the offending bathysphere into a thousand tiny fragments. I was even more prepared when it calculated your destination in the very next instant. But, from the information I've acquired, that would be doing you a favor wouldn't it?"

DeWitt raises his eyebrows. "Well ain't this a surprise." He reaches for the radio and begins speaking into it. "When the girl said you were havin' a party, I thought we'd have to climb all the way up to beg an audience. Didn't figure you'd demean yourself by comin' down and speakin' to us directly."

"Make no mistake, Booker DeWitt; this is not a direct communication." Andrew Ryan says. "The standard issue short-wave transceiver your bathysphere was equipped with is incapable of responding to this broadcast. I have no desire to hear whatever excuses you might be in the process of making. Instead I will say only this: The girl you're looking for is dead. Nothing you can say or do will change the facts, and any attempts to the contrary will most certainly end in pain." DeWitt rolls his eyes. "Now, as for your 'companion'... I have no record of her setting foot in this city before September of this year, at which point Rapture was no longer accepting immigrants. I'm sure I don't need to remind you why that was an especially auspicious month for all of us. Your sense of timing is either very poor or remarkably good, young lady. If you persist in this endeavor, I would advise you be on your guard. The 'splicers' may not be the most dangerous element down there..."

The radio goes dead. The atmosphere in the bathysphere is chilly like the ocean outside as it descends into the depths.


	5. Touchdown

"Who was she?" Elizabeth asks after a while.

"Orphan." DeWitt responds. "Rapture's full of 'em, these days more than most."

"Why her?"

"I don't know. You got a reason for every damnfool thing you've ever done?" He feels the urge to explain. Elizabeth's gaze is steady and unflinching. "She'd come up to you with these big blue eyes you couldn't say no to..."

"And you lost her."

"Yeah. I lost her. More important question is, what is she to you?" he asks. She turns away and is saved from having to come up with a response when a large building hovers into view on the edge of the searchlights.

"What IS that?" Elizabeth asks.

"Must be the old Fontaine department store. Always wondered what happened. Y' could never miss it; only building in the whole of Rapture that had eyes on the outside as well as on the inside." DeWitt says.

"What's it doing all the way out here?"

"Beats me. Andrew Ryan said something about splicers. Guess we're gonna find out what happened t' all those 'monstrosities' the Tribune wouldn't stop goin' on about."

The bathysphere pulls into one of the docks and begins to rise as Elizabeth says, "I guess I should stay close then."

"Maybe. Depends how good a shot y' are." DeWitt reaches into his coat and brings out his Mauser. He debates whether or not he should offer it to her.

Her eyes lock onto it. It would be so easy to take it from him and bring him the end he so richly deserves, but... no. He has to remember what he's done, the way her father had. Her hands are shaking. Why is nothing turning out the way she thought it would? She _could_ look and see, but her body is barely holding itself together as it is. _Just a little longer,_ she tries to tell herself. _Just a little more and then you can rest._

The bathysphere comes to a stop at the top of the tunnel. The door swings open to reveal a room drenched in both gloom and puddles of seawater. "Sorry about the shoes." DeWitt says preemptorily to Elizabeth as he steps out. She wrinkles her nose at the stench, but follows his lead. The overhead lights have long since burned out, though a couple of the signs and products on display are occasionally illuminatedby their respective spotlights. DeWitt passes over the room once, having decided against entrusting his sidearm to Elizabeth. Seeing no trace of movement, he lowers it to his side, keeping an eye on the frozen corpse sitting on a nearby bench. "Looks as though we're clear." he says.

"There's no telling what we're going to find down here, Mr DeWitt." Elizabeth says, stepping carefully through the ankle-deep water. "It might behoove us to search for supplies."

"Good thinkin'." he says. As he bends down to look behind a countertop, she can hear him mutter 'behoove' under his breath sarcastically. She rolls her eyes.

"I got nothin'." he announces after a while.

"All I've found is some spare change." Elizabeth replies. She passes it to him. "There may be a few vending machines up and running." she suggests.

"Hmm. Best hope so." DeWitt hopes there'll be some more ammunition further in. He's only brought a couple magazines' worth...

They head up the steps in the back of the room. There's a buildup of ice to their left, though the staircase to the right is thankfully free. "That seem like a lot of ice to you?" DeWitt asks Elizabeth.

"If there was a burst pipe, you'd expect to see some of it trickling down to the lower level..." she muses in agreement.

"Yeah." He spots a blast of frost on a nearby wall and mutely puts two and two together. When they reach the top and round a corner, they're greeted by a large electrified gate. "'Closed by order of the Council.'" DeWitt reads aloud. "You gotta be kidding. Well that didn't last long. Shoulda seen it comin'-"

"Hold on." Elizabeth interrupts. She's gazing at, of all things, the light fixture _above_ the gate. "I wonder..." DeWitt looks about impatiently while her mind continues to work. "We need to go back." she says at last.

"Back where?"

"Back to the docking station. I think I'll be able to make something that'll help us across." So, he follows her back to the docking station, where she promptly starts looking for something.

"You forget we already searched this place?" he asks.

Elizabeth pushes aside a grimy old mannequin and holds up a vacuum cleaner. "This will serve as the body of the device." she tells him. "We'll need a wrench, some brackets and bolts, some tape and some wire, a leather belt, and some sharp curved metal."

"You gonna at least tell me why?"

"My motto is 'show, don't tell.'" she replies. DeWitt frowns, but begins his search.

* * *

><p>Some time later, he's found all that she'd 'asked' for. She spreads the items out on top of a workbench and begins to work. With nothing else to do, he watches her. He'd initially considered the prongs on the hatstand nearby, but discarded them on finding a Pneumo Bot on the upper level. The hooks they use to move along the Pneumo Lines embedded in the walls fit Elizabeth's description much better, and, to his satisfaction, it even has the rotor attached.<p>

"You're good with yer hands." DeWitt tells her. He has trouble not staring at her missing pinkie.

"I'm good with most things." she says in acknowledgement. "You could say I've been around."

"Not guns though?"

"No. Not guns."

"Mmm." He searches for something else to say. He wonders why he wants to keep her talking. Maybe to jog his memory... "I don't think I was tellin' the truth back in the elevator." he says slowly.

"What do you mean?" Her eyes are focused on her work.

"I don't know. You just seem...familiar." Pictures flash in front of his eyes once more. _A city in the sky? Ridiculous. And yet... A statue of an angel. He knows he's seen it before, though its face is strangely blurred..."You're hurting her!"_

"Mr DeWitt?" Elizabeth is holding something out to him. "Where's the rest?" she asks.

"The rest...? I- That's all I found..." It's so much harder to focus...

"What do you mean, that's all?" She puts a hand on her hip, and rests the device against her shoulder, frowning at him.

"Those are all the...the parts..." It's hard to breathe now too...

"Wait here." she tells him. "I'll see if there's anything you missed." Her tone implies she doesn't find that hard to believe. DeWitt leans heavily against the workbench as she sloshes away through the standing pools of water. It's times like this he's glad he quit smoking. If he hadn't, he'd probably be having a heart attack right now.

She comes back in a few minutes, looking even angrier than when she'd left. "Seems we'll have to throw it over the barricade for the other person's use." she admits.

DeWitt, almost recovered by this point, vehemently disagrees. "What if somethin' grabs you when I'm not there?" he points out.

"I said I can handle myself."

"An' what if yer lyin'? You been doin' that a hell of a lot since you came into my office."

"Do you want me to _prove_ it to you?" She puts her finger on the trigger of her contraption, and he remembers just how sharp those blades are.

"No, I just-" He thinks very hard about how best to phrase his next question. "Look. Way I see it, we can keep on arguing or we can settle this like civilized human beings."

"And how would that be?" Elizabeth asks, just as angry as before.

"I grab hold of the watchamacallit, an' you grab hold of me."

"What?" Her voice is colder than cold.

"Hear me out. I didn't see you find enough string t' make some kinda grapplin' hook outta that, so I'm guessin' it's got some sorta magnet inside, strong enough t' give whoever's holdin' it a boost up t' that light fixture you were starin' at. About right?" As he pauses for breath, DeWitt is gratified to see a look of grudging respect dawn on Elizabeth's face. "An' I don't think you're not strong enough t' pick me up, so I gotta carry you. That's the only way I see this workin'."

She seems to calm down a little. "I may have done you a disservice just then, Mr DeWitt; I beg your pardon." The words sound flat, even to him. "You're right, of course. We should get a move on." She gazes at him, her large blue eyes as implacable as the rest of her, until he heaves himself to his feet and heads back up the steps.

When they're at the gate once more, Elizabeth hands her device over to DeWitt. While he adjusts to the weight and feel of it against his arm, he asks, "You come up with a name for this thing?"

"I don't know. I hadn't given it much thought." she says with a shrug. "A...skyhook maybe?"

"Hm. Better than nothin'." He looks over at her. "Y' ready?"

"Give me a minute." She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, then nods. "Let's go." He wraps his free arm awkwardly around her waist, looks up and points the newly-christened skyhook at the light sconce and pulls the trigger.

He's pulled bodily off his feet, narrowly avoiding the electrified gate on his way up. The blades on the end nestle perfectly inside the ornamental chain that hangs from the light. He looks down as he feels Elizabeth shifting her weight up, trying to lift her feet away from the gate. He's about to ask if she's okay, when they hear voices coming from the tunnel on their right. "I want the frosty one! GET ME THE FROSTY ONE!"

"No! Come back! I want the frosty! Want it! Want it!"

Something emerges, too intent on fleeing to notice DeWitt and Elizbeth. It hurls a jagged ball of ice at a torrent of water gushing out of some broken pipes, freezing it solid and forming a bridge to the other side of a gaping hole in the ground behind the fence. It makes a mighty jump through the air and lands upon the bridge, and it's only then that the observers realize what they're looking at: a blue-skinned horrendously mutated _man_ with crystal-like ice growths protruding from its body! Two other men appear, their own mutations thankfully covered by the boxes on their heads. The icy mutant freezes one of them as they leap down to pursue. The other manages to smack the projectile in two before it can hit him. The mutant flees through a door at the far end of the room, which closes swiftly behind it. Its lone animate pursuer pounds against the door, unaware of the electronic open switch to its right. The other one thaws out a few moments later and hobbles shiveringly over to its comrade, dragging its cudgel habitually against the ground. The first one turns upon hearing the noise. A struggle ensues.

Taking advantage of the commotion, DeWitt gets a firmer hold of Elizabeth's waist and jumps down to safety. His arm aches a little, but it'll calm down soon. "You okay?" he mutters quietly.

"Of course." she hisses. "You need to deal with those splicers before one of them spots us."

He decides to call her out on her lying to him again some other time (hard not to notice the way she keeps casting nervous looks at the electric fence), and advances across the bridge. The splicer that had been first to the door lies dead on the ground. His murderer crouches over him, rummaging through his pockets. "More lint, and more lint, and more lint... Why didn't you ever have your fucking suit cleaned?" he mutters. It's all too easy to take him by surprise: walk up behind him, jerk his head to the right and cut his throat with the skyhook in one clean move.

"Was there a need to be so brutal?" Elizabeth asks as she joins him.

"No sense wastin' ammo." DeWitt says, dropping the body to the floor, the better to frisk him. Nothing but more loose change. "Besides, he's an addict. Both of 'em are. I've seen enough of their kind to know there's no knockin' or talkin' sense into 'em."

She doesn't acknowledge his remark. Instead, she pushes the button. The door opens, revealing it to be an elevator. "Nowhere to go but up." she says. They step inside.


	6. Bloodshed

After DeWitt pushes the button to take them to the upper level, there is a moment of silence. Elizabeth looks at him closely, and decides it's time to apply a little more pressure. "How long have you been in Rapture?" she asks.

"Couple years." he says. "Matter of fact, just goin' on ten. How 'bout yourself?" He remembers all too well what Andrew Ryan had said...

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." she replies, disappointed by how easily he'd answered her.

"Is that so?" He turns on her. Now it's his turn to be angry. He barks question after question. "What's really going on down here anyway? What possible interest could you have in Sally?"

"My interest is not in Sally, Mr DeWitt, but in you." Her composure has returned. She matches his anger with icy calm, which by now is almost the norm for her. The elevator doors open. "We might want to save this discussion for later." Elizabeth murmurs. Someone can be heard holding a one-sided and very insane conversation with herself not too far away.

The woman is scattering imaginary bird seed to imaginary birds. As DeWitt creeps slowly up the steps behind her, the 'birds' seem to notice something before she does. "What's-what's the matter with you? Do you think it's poison?" she asks, oblivious to the presence behind her until it snaps her neck between two of the hooks. Two other splicers, who had been searching for supplies around the corner, hurry over, drawn by the noise. They lunge at DeWitt, lead pipes raised high, but his skyhook is stuck fast in the woman's neck. He whirls her body around in front of him to deflect one of the blows, and shoots the other slower splicer in the head. He falters, drops his pipe, then tumbles down the stairs and lands in front of Elizabeth, who's taking cover behind one of the railings. DeWitt and the lone survivor struggle for a moment with the woman's corpse dangling limply between them. Finally, DeWitt manages to pull the trigger hard enough to take the woman's head off and shoves the corpse forward, knocking the splicer to the ground. He struggles wildly to get the body off him before DeWitt shoots him once in the head and he goes limp.

"There." DeWitt says, breathing slightly harder than usual. "What were you sayin'?" he asks, but Elizabeth diverts his attention.

"That's the way to the main elevator..." she says, pointing behind him. He turns. Another large chasm lies between them and their goal, with yet another burst pipe gushing water into it, and no light sconces for them to jump onto. "That splicer had no problem freezing a path for himself." she muses.

"I'm sure he'll be happy to do the same for us." DeWitt grunts.

"I have no doubt you'll prove persuasive." she says. While DeWitt searches the surroundings for supplies, Elizabeth spies a promising sign. "'Snow Queen's Castle'..." she muses aloud. "I suppose there's no place like home, but wouldn't Jack Frost have been a better choice for a mascot? He's more recognizable."

"Think the kids found him too frightening." DeWitt says over his shoulder. "Besides, who'd you rather skate with: a grumpy old man or a willowy little blonde?"

He heads through the door the sign is advertising, marked by a large well-lit sign reading 'Stairs To Upper Level', but Elizabeth hangs back. Something about the display unnerves her, and suddenly she realizes why. There's a faint but all-too-familiar shimmer around it. Reluctantly, she calls upon her 'other sight'. "She's not supposed to appear for another half a century..." she whispers. "Is this _my fault_?"

"You coming?" DeWitt says, poking his head back through the double doors. Hastily, Elizabeth brings herself back to base line.

"I found something." she announces, pulling a lockpick from one of her pockets. She hurries over and hands it to him.

"Good eye." he says. He looks at it closely. "Y' know how to use it?"

"I've browsed a couple books." she says idly. "Wouldn't mind a few pointers, if you have any."

"Sure. Here's one: don't break it." He tosses it back. "Yer nose is bleedin'." he adds.

She sighs. _Never fails._ "Could I trouble you for your handkerchief again?" she asks.

"This?" He tugs it out of his breast pocket. "No trouble. Provided you answer a couple questions..."

"Do we really have time?" Elizabeth asks, when of course they do. Once again, she is metaphorically saved by a splicer. DeWitt turns to look at the door the noises are emanating from, pistol in one hand, handkerchief in the other, closer to Elizabeth. She takes it as they listen to the voice.

"Why do you always DO this?!" it demands of no one in particular. DeWitt edges towards the door. Judging by the deposits of ice and snow, it appears their quarry passed this way not long ago. "You think you're so much better! You'll open up if you know what's good for you!" The door opens silently, and he enters a large split-level open showroom. On the other side of an empty glass showcase, they can dimly see human-like shapes pounding on the door to something called 'The Daily Bread'. All around the room, water Water drips from the ceiling, forming small but sizable puddles that would attract undue attention if carelessly stepped into.

"Good spot f'r an ambush." DeWitt whispers.

"Two if you're not careful." Elizabeth whispers back, her voice muffled by the handkerchief she's pushing against her nose.

"Yeah. Wait here; I'm gonna scout ahead."

"Can I at least have something to defend myself?" she hisses at his retreating back. He sighs and hands her his pistol.

"Make every shot count." he tells her, and disappears into the darkness. She huddles back against the counter. _He's not going to fail,_ she says to herself. She wishes she could stop shivering...

* * *

><p>DeWitt returns a short while later. "All right. Counted eight of 'em; four down below, four up top. They wander around a lot, but I managed t' hack one of their turrets. Soon as it starts firin', we need t' get movin'."<p>

Her nose stopped bleeding a couple minutes ago. She passes him his blood-stained handkerchief and says, "Depending on where that turret is, we might be able to sneak past them."

"Or we could wipe 'em out from a crawlspace a couple feet away from the turret." he suggests. "Not sure how well they c'n crawl."

"We can't kill every splicer we run across..."

"Maybe not, but we c'n even the odds in case one of 'em goes for help."

A loud ringing sound cuts through the air, followed by the sound of machine gun fire. "The fucking turret shot me!" someone cries.

"Bash its brains out!" someone else cries.

"It doesn't have any brains!"

"I can't feel my leg!"

"Move!" DeWitt says. Elizabeth springs to her feet and follows him through the door. The upper landing is crowded with splicers trying to get to the supposedly malfunctioning turret, so their path across the room is clear. They hurry up the staircase, the clacking of Elizabeth's heels drowned out by the sounds of battle. They stop for breath in a room with two thoroughly frozen splicers and a set of broken stairs. "Find some cover." DeWitt tells her. "I'm gonna clear out whatever that turret can't." Elizabeth opens her mouth to protest, but he cuts her off. "Trust me. I'll be doing them a favor."

As she listens to the sound of gunfire and the screams of 'men' and 'women' being set alight with a snap of his fingers, Elizabeth finds it much easier to hate him.


	7. Ever On

"_...just as sexual reproduction can de-emphasize the traits of each parent, so goes the effect of multiple realities on our own. Your traits dissipate, until they become unrecognizable, or cease to exist."_

"_Why does this Comstock decay, while a Comstock in another world remains fit? If genetics are destiny, what accounts for the difference?"_

"_What am I? What AM I?"_

Footsteps. She looks up. There he is. "It's done." he says. Is that quiet, savage glee in his voice? "Come on. Gotta take the high road again."

She allows him to help her to her feet. It's easier for her to accept his arm around her this time, the way _his_ had been once, so long ago. This next jump will be more difficult, but she knows he'll make it. He always does. She doesn't stop to think as he latches onto the light. She leaps away from him and grabs hold of the railing. There's a moment of pain as her joints voice their displeasure. Manageable. She pulls herself up and over and onto the landing, then steps away to give him room. There's a battle raging about ten feet away, but the participants are keeping each other busy. She hears a grunt. He's made the jump. Almost. "Elizabeth!" He's calling for her help. She could let him drop, but she doesn't. She can't. She offers him a hand. Her right hand. He has to KNOW.

He takes it. She sees the familiar letters 'A.D' on the back of his hand; not scarred but inked. Her sacrifice was only temporary to him. Bile rises inside her throat. She has to fight not to be sick. "Somethin' wrong?" he asks once he's on the other side and gasping for air. She shakes her head. The gunfire dies down. The splicers have killed each other off. "Soon as you're ready." he tells her. She takes one more moment to relax, then nods at him. He nods back, and proceeds into the store. The lower level has been ransacked. No point in looking for supplies. He heads up the stairs, but is brought up short by a sudden spray of bullets. He ducks back behind cover. Once the bullets stop, he peers around the corner.

A battered old turret is all that sits between them and the Menswear exit. From its slightly bulkier design as well as the lack of a searchlight, DeWitt supposes it to be one of the motion-sensitive types favored by more unscrupulous businesses. _Small wonder Fontaine liked 'em_, he thinks grimly. There are bodies all around it.

"All right." he mutters to Elizabeth. "We're gonna need a distraction if we wanna make it by in one piece. Grab one of those dummies and throw it far as you can. That should give me enough time to get a few shots in." She does as he tells her; it's a solid plan and there's no sense making any extra noise someone could overhear. The mannequin isn't heavy as much as it is unwieldy; she shifts its weight in her hands as she figures out the best way to throw it. She throws it overhand past DeWitt and is rewarded with a loud clatter as it lands. The turret opens fire, tearing the plastic doll into chunks. DeWitt takes aim and fires once, twice. The bullets strike the ammo crate along the side. The machine explodes. He sighs and lowers his gun. "Good throw." he says.

"Good shooting." she returns. She's about to say something else when there's a commotion from Haberdashery ahead to the right. A trio of splicers hurry down the steps and take in the scene.

The one in front unholsters a machine gun. "They can't have gone far! Start looking!" he shouts. His associates fan out, holding a flashlight and a length of lead pipe respectively. They beat them menacingly against their palms.

The leader steps forward, leaving the menial task of searching to his underlings. "It's only gonna get worse, pal." he growls. "Just come on out. We'll make it nice an' easy for ya."

Elizabeth quietly moves behind cover, as if sensing the battle to come. DeWitt looks at his hand. The fire at his fingers is dimmer now. He'll need to find some EVE, and soon.

The splicer is almost upon him. _Now or never,_ he thinks and grabs the splicer by the collar. Before the other man has time to let out more than a strangled 'wha?', DeWitt slams him face-first into the concrete pillar he had been hiding behind. The splicer reels for a moment, giving DeWitt a chance to grab the tommy gun from his hands and push him down the small flight of stairs. The other splicers are already closing in as he turns. He opens fire. The one with the lead pipe takes four shots to the chest before he goes down. The other has his flashlight raised high above his head. DeWitt barely dodges and pulls the trigger again.

_Click._

_Shit._

The splicer swings his weapon around wildly in a horizontal arc, catching DeWitt in the ribs. He grunts, the wind knocked clean out of him. The leader's getting back up. DeWitt doesn't have a choice. As the splicers advance, he snaps his fingers one last time. The splicer in charge howls horribly as his clothes and skin catch fire. His only remaining accomplice looks over in shock, which turns out to be a very big mistake. There's a loud crack or clanging sound as Elizabeth brings the discarded pipe down on his skull, laying him out across the floor.

The silence that follows is perforated by DeWitt gasping for breath, trying to ignore the smell of burning flesh. "Is he dead...?" he wheezes.

"Yes, he is." she says, trying not to look as sick as she feels.

"You didn't even look."

"I've seen more than enough dead people in my time, Mr DeWitt. And if you plan on thanking me, I should think a fine way to start would be to not let this happen again." She picks the flashlight off the ground and is pleasantly surprised to find it's still in working order.

DeWitt struggles to his feet. "Let me see if they got any ammo. After that we c'n head out."

"Good. While we're at it, we might check Haberdashery to see if they had some sort of base of operations." Elizabeth says.

He grunts as his search turns up a few more clips for his new tommy gun. "Think that's givin' 'em a bit too much credit. But, might as well..."

All that Haberdashery yields is another fistful of dollars, and upon examination of his wallet DeWitt discovers this to be more than enough to purchase an EVE Hypo from a Circus of Value, should they still be operational. On general principle he doesn't much care for needles, but there's a time and place for 'druthers'.

They head out the door to her left. Before long, they find themselves on the second level of the Pavilion. Just ahead is a Home Delivery station, with more Pneumo Bots hanging from the line. "Might be enough stuff around to make another of them sky hooks." DeWitt suggests.

"I hope you remember what I'll need to make them." she responds.

"Uhh, refresh my memory?" He takes one of the less damaged Pneumo Bots off of the line and sets it on the counter for Elizabeth to dismantle.

"One vacuum cleaner, one wrench, one leather belt, brackets, bolts, tape and wire." She rattles them off as if by memory. "Let's store the Bot down here, just in case some splicers wander past." She places it down below the counter.

"Vacuum cleaner won't be hard to find." DeWitt says. "Ladies Department's just over there."


	8. Edge Closer

The Ladies Department had been undergoing renovations when the building was set adrift, so there are plenty of places they might find the parts they need. DeWitt picks up a screwdriver that is only slightly smeared with blood (one down already) and sets about looking for the right size bolts. While examining the shelves in one of the stores he idly asks, "What'd you mean earlier? You said somethin' about only bein' interested in _me_. I mean, if that's the case then why bother comin' after me with the Sally angle?"

"It was nothing, a...slip of the tongue. Forget I mentioned it." Elizabeth replies. She has her eyes out for the tape and the wire.

"I know you're the client and all, but I've gone about far enough without a few answers." He straightens up and tucks the newfound screwdriver into a pocket. "Start talkin'."

She turns to him. "Remember when you said you felt as if you'd seen me somewhere?" she asks. He nods in return. "You were right. And that's all I have to say about the matter."

The blood starts pounding in his head. He can feel his nose bleed. He hears her saying things she's never _said_. No, she's...singing. _"...Just remember darling, all the while... You belong to me..."_

When he recovers, she's still glaring at him, arms crossed beneath her breasts. "I'm startin' to get sick of this." he grumbles.

"Something we have in common." she observes. DeWitt shakes his head and gets back to work.

The trip to the jewelry store proves to be very productive. Not only do they have the bolts that Elizabeth needs, but a wrench and brackets to boot. "Let's check upstairs for the wire 'n' tape." DeWitt suggests.

"The men's department is bound to have a belt we can use." Elizabeth says. "That just leaves the vacuum cleaner."

"Gettin' a little ahead of yourself. We don't even know if they'll have the wire and tape up there." Suddenly he realizes what he's saying. "Look at us. We started out lookin' f'r a girl, ONE GIRL. Now we're on a scavenger hunt at the bottom of the ocean. We don't even know if she's in this damn place..."

"What other choice do we have?" Elizabeth asks.

That brings him up short, but not for long. "How are we s'posed t' make it back t' the city?" he continues. "The bathysphere's probably on its way back by now, on an automated timer."

"Now who's the one getting ahead of themselves?" she says pointedly. DeWitt grimaces. _She's good._ he thinks.

They make their way upstairs. There's only one store that's 'open'. "Shoes." DeWitt observes. "Well at the very least they might have somethin' quieter 'n' what you've got on."

She says nothing. She's getting too friendly with him. She's mistaking him for someone he's not. Someone she can never see again. If she listens hard enough, she can almost hear what he would say: _"That man doesn't care about right or wrong. But you do. There's still a chance f'r you t' walk away."_

"_Walk away?"_ she thinks to herself (or to him) as she watches the other man begin his search. _"You asked me what would happen if I woke up one day and didn't like the choice that I'd made. But I can _change_ them!"_

Another voice comes to mind, chiding yet dispassionate. _"Can you?"_

"_Or are you becoming part of the problem instead of the solution?" _A third voice, different from the second, but somehow almost identical.

"_What if you create more worlds through your actions instead of diminishing them?"_

"_That was your intent, was it not? To diminish the worlds where Comstock and the events of Columbia occurred?"_

"_But you cannot reduce an infinite number of possibilities."_

"_You can try I suppose."_

"_Better her than us..."_

Then the voices are gone, leaving Elizabeth tired, cold and alone. DeWitt has moved out of sight, though she thinks she can hear him rummaging around inside the shoe store. She opens the door. "Find anything?" she asks the darkened interior, her Rapture poise and manner of speaking falling by the wayside for a moment. If he could see her now, he probably wouldn't even recognize her. There's no response. She tries again. "Mr DeWitt?" She takes another step into the store. Silence.

A hand closes around her mouth.


	9. Momentary Lull

"Splicer." he murmurs in her ear. Her moment of terror is gone, replaced with hot blinding rage. How _dare_ he! "This one's different from the others. Best we get a move on." He pulls his hand away and edges around her toward the door.

"Don't touch me." she spits after him, which turns out to be a mistake.

There's a clatter from further in. "I know I heard it that time!" something cries. An impossibly long neck snakes over to where Elizabeth had been standing. She's backed into the shadows now, and the head on top of the neck squints around to try and find her. Its eyes are large and unfocused. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice-" The head chuckles lowly. "-and I'll make you wish you were never born. How's that sound?"

DeWitt and Elizabeth are hardly moving, hardly breathing. DeWitt thinks about reaching for his gun, but the head is between him and Elizabeth. If it moves, he might lose any chance he has for answers. He reaches into his pocket and slowly pulls out the wrench, lining it up with the creature's skull before he lashes out. The long neck and head droop down to the floor. Elizabeth lets out the breath she's been holding. "What _is _that?" she asks.

"Don't know. Not sure as I care to either." DeWitt holds out a hand and beckons to her. "Let's get the hell out of here 'fore it wakes up."

She disregards his outstretched hand and steps over the neck. "I suppose there's no sense asking if you got what we came for." she says as she exits the store.

"I'd just laid eyes on the vacuum cleaner when I heard that thing talkin' to itself. Didn't have time to grab it then, but I might now. Wait here." He hurries off to the right.

Elizabeth looks down at the creature. What she can see of it is still motionless on the ground. "I don't think I've ever seen splicing turn out like this." she murmurs. "It could be one of those 'spiders' getting greedy. Maybe SportBoost?" She runs through the list of Plasmids that she knows about, unwilling to 'look up' any more through the Sea of Doors just yet. "Or Houdini. It might explain why his genes seem to have gotten confused the way they do."

"Or maybe all of the above." DeWitt says, holding the vacuum cleaner under one arm. "No sign of the other things y' wanted." he adds.

"Then let's head back to the men's department for the belt." she says, and turns on her heel.

He catches up after he bars the door with a spare bit of plywood. "What exactly is all this junk gonna do?" he asks.

As they make their way back through the Pavilion, Elizabeth explains. "The body of the vacuum cleaner will serve as the body of the device, obviously."

"Obviously."

"The hooks from the Pneumo Bot are what will enable us to hold onto the light fixtures. The handle of the vacuum cleaner will trigger the magnet once we find the wire and tape. The belt, the brackets and the bolts act as an arm-rest. And you might have seen me using some other tools down below to help get the metal into shape, a metal cutter, drill and pliers, but there seem to be plenty of those around on workbenches and such."

DeWitt shakes his head in disbelief. "There anything you can't do?" he asks, half-jokingly.

"I never learned how to cook. I had a...friend...of the family who...took care of that." She had seen an echo of him in the deep-sea welder outside Market Street. Constants and variables. "Besides that? I never learned how to fire a gun, as I already told you. I'm not sure I want to learn either."

DeWitt sets their new supplies down upon the Home Delivery counter. "It's lookin' like it's kill or be killed down here. Might be worth reevaluatin'." He hesitates a moment, then draws his Mauser out and places it next to the pile. "Gimme a shout if y' need anythin'."

Elizabeth hurriedly starts work on whatever she can to prepare for the other parts. She won't allow herself to think about how much trust he has begun to put in her, nor of how she will use that trust during what is to come.


	10. Fact From Myth I

The quality is poor; early 80s one suspects, recorded on VCR. But the contents are almost invaluable. Someone had been lucky enough to tape a rare episode of Fact From Myth, titled "Rapture: A Modern Day Atlantis?" The series aired late at night on whatever broadcasting networks would take it, and dealt with the sort of thing you'd expect from a program with that kind of name: Bigfoot sightings, alien abduction stories, so-called numbers stations, the 'Dyatlov Pass incident'... But every so often, it inadvertently mentioned something true, at least in passing. "A Modern Day Atlantis?" aired only once, and was never released on home video.

The episode opens with a shot of stormy water as a stone-voiced narrator intones, "'Somewhere, in the North Atlantic, far from any land, there lies a lighthouse. Some claim it's a ghost structure, built of ectoplasmic bricks and that glimmering light at its peak is fueled by the fires of Hell! They call this baleful black beacon the Phantom Lighthouse. Lord help the lost ship that wanders into these waters unaware - for suddenly, compasses spin awry and radios fill with static. Then the Phantom Lighthouse looms suddenly in the mist.'"

An artist's rendition of the Phantom Lighthouse fades in on screen. "'To set eyes upon it (so it's said) is to meet most certain death. The waters around the black tower are awash with the splinters of broken boats. the air around it echoes with the shrieks of dying sailors and the keening wails of unholy, misshapen creatures that feed on human flesh.'"

Thankfully the program doesn't go so far as to attempt to provide sound effects, and the screen goes black. "'It sounds like another old and lurid legend - but the tale is of recent vintage. Folklorists have found no trace of its telling before the end of World War II!'" There's a pause before the narrator continues speaking, somewhat less belaboredly. "These words from notorious pulp fiction author Carleton Rede's 1969 book _Back to the Frozen Triangle_, a sequel to his previous work quite simply titled _The Frozen Triangle_, allegedly overheard from a group of Icelandic sailors, paint a fantastic picture. But it's not nearly as fantastic as what these and other sources claim or hint lies beneath this 'Phantom Lighthouse': a city at the bottom of the ocean, where some of the best and brightest minds of the 20th century allegedly disappeared to in the chaos that followed Adolf Hitler and Japanese emperor Hirohito's defeat. Though hard evidence for the existence of this city is hard to come by, we consider it our duty to uncover as much as we can in _Fact From Myth_."

The titlecard appears from a blur of stars: plain white text over a cloudy background of teal and blue and green and red. "_Fact From Myth,_" it reads. "_Rapture: A Modern Day Atlantis? Narrated by Miles Bloom._"

You have to fast-forward through the commercials yourself. No TiVo in the days the recording was made. As is often the case, you misjudge the end of the commercials and end up fast-forwarding through the introduction of the next segment. You press Play and then Rewind, with the portrait of an infamous man staring out at you from the television. You hit play again, and the narrator begins. "Our story begins with Andrew Ryan. Born Andrei Rianofski in Czarist Russia, he fled the country two years after the revolution which brought the Communists into power, abdicating to America. For a while, he lived in peace, enjoying what he believed to be the fruits of his labor, his intellect and willpower. He founded, as well as owned, Ryan Oil; the second biggest railroad in America; and a large percentage of American coal mines as well. Then the New Deal arrived, and Andrew Ryan proved to be as little a fan of state-run social programs then as he had been in 1919. Rather than allow Congress to nationalize a forest he owned to turn it into a park, he burned it to the ground." A picture of a forest goes up in fake flames. The narrator continues. "By 1945, the industrial magnate had begun secluding himself from the public eye. The FBI launched an investigation into certain undisclosed business practices, but nothing ever came of it. Nothing official, at any rate. And in 1947..." The portrait of Ryan, which reappeared after the 'fire', disappears again. "Andrew Ryan vanished."

Newspaper headlines about the disappearance flash in, then stock pictures of businesses or business-related things like accountants slowly cycle in and out. "When the IRS received Ryan's business records, they were not surprised to discover that his accounts were almost empty. There was little to no paper trail regarding where the money had gone, and popular consensus was that he'd gotten out while the getting was good and was 'sunning it up on a beach somewhere'."

The narrator sounds contemplative. "But with the benefit of hindsight, and a number of strange findings that have emerged throughout the years, some have begun to wonder if Mr Ryan had found a better use for his money. Someplace free of government interference... When _Fact From Myth _returns, we'll examine a trunk of mysterious memorabilia that washed up on the New England coast, including this haunting painting."

A pale young woman with black hair that reaches _almost_ to her shoulders is captured in motion, dancing solemnly, almost wistfully, with a man nearly a full head taller than her. His back is to the artist and the viewer, but there's a quality in his posture that provides the impression that he's focusing entirely on her, ignoring the disturbing shapes that lurk in the background, as indeed he had been that Christmas night.


	11. Frosty On Ice

Elizabeth pushes the pistol back across the counter, newly-crafted skyhook in her other hand. "Here." she says to DeWitt. He'd procured the necessary belt AND wire AND tape from the men's department and returned, somewhat surprised with his good fortune.

DeWitt looks askance at her. "What, you prefer the machine gun?" he asks.

"I'd prefer if we got a move on. I think I'll leave the firearms to you." she replies. "You appear to be more than competent in handling them."

He picks up the Mauser with practiced ease. "Guess you could say I've been around a bit as well." he mutters. He lost track of how many lives this gun has taken many years ago, and the body count is only continuing to rise. "You do all right in a scrap, but the moment someone gets the drop on ya, you might be wishin' you'd taken me up on this." he tells her, after a moment adding, "'Sides, I'm not gonna be around f'rever, then what're ya gonna do?"

"I don't make a habit out of this line of work." Elizabeth says as she comes around the counter to stand next to him. "Once this job is done, it may prove to be my last." She is so close to her rest now...

"That so?" DeWitt walks over to the elevator. The button is stuck and takes a few good hits with his fist before it lights up. "You gotta retirement plan lined up?" he asks to pass the time.

"I have **a** plan." she admits. Then she frowns. "Hear that?" There's the sound of an argument coming from the elevator.

DeWitt nods grimly. "Splicers." He takes up a position to the left of the elevator doors, and Elizabeth does the same before he can give her the signal to.

There's a _thump_, a _ding_, and the doors open. Two splicers, a male and a female, step out. "You're crazy if you think either one of 'em gives a fuck about us." the female scoffs.

"Just you wait." the male snaps at her. "Soon as things go south, we'll be fielding offers left right and center!"

"At least Atlas had some fresh ideas." the female gripes. "Ryan just wants us to go back to the status quo." She turns at the sound of a footstep behind her, and she and her partner go down in a hail of bullets from DeWitt's tommy gun. He pauses for a cursory inspection of their belongings, but quickly straightens up and motions for Elizabeth to get into the elevator. He pushes the button marked 3F and the doors close.

"Look." he sighs at last. "Somethin's botherin' me." He amends his statement under Elizabeth's inquisitive look. "More 'n' just one thing. What are we doin' down here? If Sally IS alive, an' she IS a Little Sister, why would the eggheads in charge of makin' ADAM want to send her here? It'd be like ringin' a dinner bell for the splicers..."

Elizabeth frowns in pretend thought. "Maybe they're trying to find an alternate means of production..."

"How's that?"

"ADAM...changes your biological makeup, turns old cells into new ones. Maybe someone started thinking about taking the drug right out of the addicts." She has to keep things vague enough to be plausible, without being specific enough to arouse any more of his suspicion.

"Hmm... Prob'ly means she'll have an escort." _Thump. Ding._ The doors are open.

It doesn't take an egghead to realize that the Plasmids section would have been the first one hit when the department store was jettisoned, so DeWitt ignores the still-flashing sign and makes straight for the Snow Queen's Castle.

Between two large art deco sculptures of the 'Snow Queen' and her alpine decorations is the door to her castle: a plain uninspired metal Securis door. It opens to reveal an absolutely glacial interior, with real snow across the floor and around the walls, to say nothing of the ice that hangs low over their heads. "Something tells me all this cold isn't just coming from the ice rink." Elizabeth says softly. They make their way around the merchandise stand set up in the middle and find another door in back. The first thing they see upon entering is a jagged block of ice in front of the doorway with a corpse impaled on the tallest of the icicles. To the right, DeWitt spies the skate rental. "Any fancy for a figure eight?" he asks wryly. The look she gives him in response is as icy as their surroundings.

There are more corpses around the room, all frozen in positions of horror. The doors to the ice rink itself have at least a touch of inspiration. Made primarily of glass and looking like a majestic gate, they swing slowly open to reveal the rink. A giant and obviously recent handmade sculpture of the titular queen stands in the center, with their blue-skinned and bearded quarry gliding around the icy floor, chipping away at certain parts with a stolen chisel. There's no sign of any other movement in the room, although the alcoves to the left and right are obscured by two of the four pillars that hold up the roof.

DeWitt crouches behind a railing and sneaks furtive looks at the target. Elizabeth hurries to join him, mindful of the sound of her shoes. Luckily, she and DeWitt seem to be the only ones who notice. "Alright. This is gonna get ugly. The crystals on that thing are gonna make it hard f'r me t' get a good headshot, an' I don't have enough EVE f'r Incinerate. We'll have t' make do. I'll try an' draw their fire; you see if y' can find some hypos or somethin'." She nods. He takes his pistol from his coat, and checks to make sure the safety is off. "Here goes..." he mutters. He pokes his head out and fires.

The first shot hits the splicer in the shoulder. He staggers, then whirls around. "What was that?" he shouts, looking wildly at the upper level. DeWitt pauses, grimly relishing the silence that the echoes of the splicer's voice leave in their wake, then he fires again. One of the crystal growths upon the man's head shatters, but he doesn't go down. He points right at DeWitt and yells, "I've had it up to _here_ with you! This one's all yours boys!"

Four splicers charge out of the alcoves on either side and up the stairs towards DeWitt. Elizabeth presses herself against a wall to avoid being seen, but the splicers only seem to have eyes for DeWitt, who's retreated into the other room in search of cover. She counts to three after they pass, then hurries down the stairs. Their bearded leader has turned his attention back to the statue, ignoring the sounds of gunfire outside.

The time for subtlety is over for now. Elizabeth straightens up. "Ray Lardner." she says, her tone flat and cold as the ground underfoot.

He throws a bolt of Winter Blast at the sound of her voice without turning. "I don't know you doll." he growls. "You better get lost before my boys come back."

She opens up a tear in the blink of an eye, and the ice disappears into a river of molten lava on the other side. "You don't have to know me." she says, snapping the tear closed. The thing that had been Ray Lardner turns. Even his drug-addled senses can tell something isn't right about this one. "Just give us some of that Plasmid and we'll let you live."

He throws back his head and laughs. "You think I'm afraid of you?" His voice has an odd echoey quality, like he's speaking from inside a block of his own ice. "I could break you into a million pieces before the old man gets back. IF he gets back..."

"He is **not** my old man." Elizabeth snaps. "This is your last chance."

A cold wind begins to billow in the still ice rink, stirring up the snow both real and fake that's lying all around, blowing Elizabeth's hair out of its carefully arranged curls and away from her face. Even she's getting goosebumps. The splicer has to shout to be heard above the gale he's created. "It'll be a shame to ruin that pretty face of yours. But you can't say I didn't warn ya!" He throws his chisel at her.

Elizabeth yanks her body to the side to avoid it. She narrows her eyes, searching for the eye of the storm. She knows she has only moments before he launches another attack. _There. _A tear appears off to her right. The splicer gasps, one last breath of air quickly lost in the maelstrom. "No you can't." she says.

There's a crunch and a thump as the tear closes. As the snow dies down, Elizabeth can see the splicer's upper body convulsing in its death throes upon the ground. Its lower half is somewhere else entirely.

DeWitt comes back in through the large double doors. The splicers had been trouble, forcing him to use up two entire magazines of ammunition for the machine gun. The silence in the rink has him on edge. He crouches down behind the railing, then, unable to wait, he pokes his head over the top. "Elizabeth?" he calls. "Are you okay?"

What happens next happens in slow motion. He sees her. And he sees what she is staring at: the legless object of their search, lifeblood staining the ice.


	12. Troubled Waters

"Elizab-" The moniker hangs unfinished in the air between them as another thought forces its way out of DeWitt's mouth. "What did you-" The skyhook wouldn't have been nearly enough to rip a man in half like that. And where are his legs?

She's still staring at it. Then she staggers away, and he hears her starting to retch in a corner. He can hardly say he blames her. But the question remains. "What did you _do_?"

For her part, Elizabeth can't bring herself to answer. Even if she hadn't been vomiting up her meager excuse for a dinner, how could she possibly hope to explain herself to this man? He of all people has had the closest experience to what she's just been through, but... no, he would never understand. He has no compassion, no guilt, no empathy. He rejected those when he took the baptism. _Then why is he here? _

Her stomach is empty, but the compulsion to upheave is still overwhelming. She goes through the motions again, but the only thing coming up is bile. And...blood. _It's begun._

She forces herself to her feet. The room is spinning unevenly. She waves off his questions with a trembling hand. _The Plasmid. ADAM is the only thing that can hold it back. _She retches again as she makes her way back to the statue. _There must be a reason. No, they're _insane_. But it's my only shot. Maybe...maybe he built this thing like a vault._

Her vision swims. She has to struggle to keep her thoughts in line. _You've spent your whole life preparing for this_, she tells herself in a daze. _It's just...another door..._ She runs her hand across the base of the statue, grimacing at a sudden stabbing pain and the resultant red trail her hand leaves behind. _All right._ she thinks grimly. _Just have to work faster. _

Finally, right in the middle, she thinks she can feel something give. She pushes hard, drawing what little strength she can from her beleaguered body, and is rewarded with a barely audible _clink_. A small panel comes undone and swings toward her. Inside, there's naught but a pile of empty syringes. Wait. Right there at the back. One last dose of Winter Blast.

She eagerly reaches in and takes hold of it. She pulls it out, ignoring the trickle of hypos that fall to the floor in its wake. DeWitt still doesn't know there's anything wrong. "Hey. Let me." he says. He's reaching for it. She yanks it away.

"It's mine!" she snaps. She's already sounding like an addict.

"Suit yourself." he says, withdrawing his hand. As she pulls out the plunger, she hears him add, "Just let me get to safe distance. No tellin' what'll happen with a first-time splice."

She does, not out of any sense of concern for his wellbeing, but because it takes her so much time to prepare herself. She hadn't had a problem with needles before one particular day during her captivity. She **should** try to keep her hand and arm steady in order to get the needle in cleanly, but she's not sure that she can... _Deep breath, _she tells herself._ Hold to a count of ten. Try not to think about how much this is going to hurt._

Too late.

The needle goes in. She barely bites back a gasp. She pushes down on the plunger with her thumb, making sure that all the liquid goes in. The moment she pulls the needle out, she feels her veins start to boil underneath her skin. Spikes of ice shoot out from the cracks of her skin. She doubles over, clutching at her stomach, unable to express her agony through her chattering jaws...and then it's over. Panting, gasping, she looks down at her trembling hands, where the shards of ice are still plainly visible. But she doesn't feel them. She doesn't feel any pain at all. It takes her a moment to realize what she _is_ feeling. Happy. Elizabeth laughs, first in disbelief, then louder, more genuinely. Deep inside, she can feel the ADAM start to rebuild her damaged and fractured DNA, or maybe she's just imagining it. Either way it feels good. She slowly unclenches her fists, uncurls her spine and straightens up. Not even the sight of the false false shepherd poking his head around a corner of one of the alcoves up above.

"We good?" he calls down to her.

_No,_ she thinks to herself even as she nods. _Not until you pay for what you did to me. _But it's an idle hatred compared to the all-consuming fire it had been when she'd first laid eyes upon him.

He makes his way across the ice to come and join her. "Time we get a move on." he says. "No telling who might've overheard that little commotion." Concern is mingled with apprehension as he looks down at her. "You sure you're okay?" She nods again impatiently. "Good. Then maybe on th' way back you can tell me what in god's name you did to that splicer over there."

Her mood on the way back to the elevator is euphoric, heavily encroaching on hysterical. "I guess you could say I gave him the COLD SHOULDER!" she giggles. DeWitt frowns. "I put him on icccccce..."

She sobers somewhat on seeing the bodies they've left in their wake, and as the elevator doors shut, she lets him in on another modicum of truth. "Things have a way of...appearing around me." There's a twinge of nausea as she remembers how equally true the opposite is, but she fights her way past it. "I can pull things through from other dimensions, dimensions like ours but different."

DeWitt considers this. "You mean... one where there's a first aid kit or a hypo full of EVE sittin' on a table downstairs?" he asks after a while.

"That's a rather limited outlook, but yes." she replies.

"HOW?" At last, the real question.

"I don't know." she lies, and what a lie it is. The doors open and she makes to leave, but he grabs her by the shoulder.

"Uh uh. I ain't letting you drop this one so easy." If he paid attention, he might have noticed how she turns rigid at his touch. "Stuff like that's way beyond even Plasmids." She shakes him off and turns with a glare. He continues, undeterred. "There's somethin' awful wrong 'bout you Elizabeth." he says, and what a TRUTH that is.

"I believe I said to keep your hands to yourself Mister DeWitt." Elizabeth replies. There's a stony glint in her eye that he hadn't seen there before. "I'm not as helpless as I was."

He sees her frost-covered hands and decides to back off. He doesn't think he could hurt her, much as she may want to hurt him. They make their way through Menswear, this time in reverse, and are soon standing in front of the hole with the overflowing pipe on the second floor. Elizabeth clenches her hand into a fist with an ominous crackling sound, then she lets loose with a blast of frost that turns the gushing water into a bridge like the one the erstwhile Mr Lardner had made for himself down below. She glares silently at DeWitt until he steps across.

The central elevator of Fontaine's Department Store looms tall before them. DeWitt hits the call button, and the distant humming of machinery fills the air.

The ceiling cracks. Elizabeth looks up.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: I really don't have any excuse for why it's taking so long for me to update this now, apart from a nagging sense that there's a lot of filler between the good bits, as I'm sure you've noticed. Sorry. :**


End file.
